


A Fragile Anarchy

by ThroughtheMirrorDarkly



Series: A New Beginning [4]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't Post To Another Site, Drama & Romance, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Fist Fights, Gen, I Update When I Update, Industrial Revolution, Isu Technology (Assassin's Creed), Magical Realism, Murder, No Beta, Old Gods, Quote: Mischief Managed (Harry Potter), War, We Die Like Assassins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22704397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThroughtheMirrorDarkly/pseuds/ThroughtheMirrorDarkly
Summary: London is the beating heart of the Industrial Revolution, where fortunes are made, and the future of the world could be left to the highest bidder. In the shadows, the Assassins attempt to wrestle the reins of the city from the Templar Order who want to create a perfect world through control and force. When primordial powers stir beneath the city that have slumbered for eons, Aster Potter finds her caught in the middle of the ancient war and will be forced to pick a side to survive.
Relationships: Aster Potter/Jacob Frye, Evie Frye/Henry Green | Jayadeep Mir
Series: A New Beginning [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1102500
Comments: 5
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

War and Peace 

By ThroughtheMirrorDarkly

* * *

Chapter One

_April 19th, 1871_

_London, England_

_Whitechapel_

A pale morning gloom streamed in through the broken window and illuminated the grizzly scene found in Whitechapel. Leanna Whitworth had been beaten and strangled by a bell pull that had been cut away from the old, ratty tapestry that had been the crown jewel of this little hovel. A splendid vision of needlework with a stallion, reared up on his back hooves and mane tossed up towards the pale sky. The tapestry laid in tatters to the right of the bed, and a good distance away from the body. The old sinister had been severely beaten. The old spinster’s face was swollen and bruised, mouth opened in a soundless scream. The pool of blood beneath the body had dried and soaked into the wood, and her left arm broken and twisted at odd angle. About two feet away, there was a fire poker on the ground. 

The tip was covered in blood. She had tried to fight the assailant off. 

Frederick Abberline pressed a handkerchief to the underside of his nose. It coated generously doused in a heavy cologne to drown out the smell of decay. He stepped through the threshold and inclined his head to the officer who stood guard. The officers had to chase off practically the whole street that had come to gawk at the crime scene. Any trail of footprints left by the killer were now indistinct to the many others that had treaded throughout the house. 

He surveyed the room with tired and droopy eyes, dragging his palm across his door knocker shaped beard. This job could wear down even the strongest of men and age them faster than time itself. His greying temples were a testament to the stress and horror he endured. London for all its prosperity, had a darker side. He had seen the worst this city had to offer, but some days it grated on him a little more than other. 

“Any witnesses?” asked the Sergeant. 

“No. The neighbor alerted the police when they started to notice the smell,” the officer replied. 

Frederick knelt beside the body, careful to avoid the blood. He blew out a hard breath and tucked his handkerchief in front breast pocket. And he then grasped the woman’s hand, pressing down on her fingers and wrist. 

“Discoloration where the blood has pooled indicates that she had been here for more than twelve hours, at the very least,” he commented, low and to himself. “There is still a stiffness to the joints. In this weather, can’t have been dead more than a day or two. That puts her death from Monday to last night Tuesday,” he spoke, more loudly and he set the woman’s hand back down on the ground. He rose to his feet and walked over to the officer. “I want you to speak to the neighbors. This did not happen quietly. Someone had to have heard something.” 

“Right away, sir.” 

Frederick walked out of the room and down the creaky flight of stairs. As soon as he reached the foot of the stairs, the front door of the hovel swung open and Jacob Frye sauntered into the building. His signature top hat set askew on his head and a wicked gleam in his deep-set whiskey colored eyes. He was all defiant and rebellious, with a temper that burned hot than the sun when invoked. His waistcoat was made from an emerald brocade, with a silver necktie over a white work shirt. He had a dark faille jacket with quilted leather on the lapel and around the collar; the unique styled coat had obviously been tailored just for him. His raven colored slicked back out of his face, highlighting the sharpness of his features. He had sideburns ran down to the curve of his jaw and from there thinned out to a shadow. 

“What fine mess do you have for us today, Freddie?” He asked, with a devil-may-care tilt to his mouth. 

“Honestly, Jacob, can you try to be serious? And have a modicum of respect for the dead while you are at it,” Evelyn ‘Evie’ Frye chided, stepping in behind her twin. Her slate blue eyes were sharp and intelligent, surveying every single detail of the macabre scene with great care. She was the more mindful and methodical of the twins, using logical and reason to guide her. Her jacket was functionable and fashionable, made from a corduroy dyed black with leather embellished along the seam lines. A leather yoke that ran along the upper back and there were several ornate, silver buttons; some were purely decorative, while the smaller ones served a purpose. A silver pocket watch hung down from the front of the jacket, swaying lazily on the chain while Evie ventured further into the bedroom. “What can we help you with today, Abberline?” 

“And what is that foul stench?” Jacob questioned, his nose wrinkled. 

“That would be the former, Miss Whitworth.” Abberline gestured for them to follow him into the kitchen area and shut the door behind them to given them a bit of privacy. “She was found murdered in her home this morning. A neighbor got tired of the smell, but she had been dead for days. Given how thin these walls are in this slum, someone had to have heard something,” he said, picking up the match box from the kitchen table to light the candle. Wooden planks had been nailed across windows as if to keep something out. “So far people are being very tight lipped about it all.” 

“How did she die?” inquired Evie. 

“Beaten within an inch of her life than strangled with a bell pull. Thing is that she would have succumbed to her injuries,” Frederick answered, gruffly. “She was an older woman and looked incredibly frail.” 

Jacob kicked a rickety chair away from the table with the tip of his foot and sank down it ungracefully with a hearty sigh. “So, the strangulation was a touch overboard,” he said. 

“That implies this murder was personal. Someone wanted this poor woman to suffer. Are these her affects?” asked Evelyn, pointing to the objects on the table. At Frederick’s nod, she stepped forward to inspect the items. Her fingers brushed across the worn, old bible that was barely held together by a fraying spine. A rosary with a little cross at the end had been wrapped around the bible to keep it all together. “Who would want to kill such a pious woman?” she asked. 

Jacob leaned forward to pluck the bible off the table much to Evelyn’s chagrin. He didn’t bat an eye at his sister’s pointed glare and the corner of his mouth lifted into an insufferable smirk. “I find that the more pious the person,” he said, unwrapping the rosary from around the bible with a flourish, “that the bigger the secret that they are hiding.” 

He cracked open the bible and set it down on the table. The pages of the bible had hollowed out with a knife and hidden inside was a small pocket revolver no more than five inches long. It wasn’t the most reliable gun out there, but it would do the trick at close range. “There were marks at the end as if someone tried to desperately pry it open,” Jacob said, tapping the end of the bible. Scraps from nails had torn the pages and the binding. “Was it found near the body?” 

“On the opposite of the room, according to my men,” Frederick replied. “She must have tried to reach the gun but couldn’t undo the rosary tied around it due to panic. She abandoned the book to fight back with the fire poker instead.” 

“Good on her for going out swinging,” Jacob commended. 

“Jacob!” admonished Evie. 

“What?” Jacob lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. “If Death knocks at my door, I would want to go out with a fight than with a whisper. No shame in that and besides, that means she got a few swings in. The killer is injured.” 

The outrage on her face gave way to consideration. “And a fire poker isn’t an everyday weapon. It could leave a very distinct bruise or wound pattern. After your officers are done with the crime scene, can you see that the fire poker finds its way to Mister Green’s Curio Shop?” she asked. “I have an experiment that I would like to conduct that could help us find the killer.” 

“I’ll see that it does,” Frederick promised. 

“Well, Freddie, is this where we move onto the juicy bit?” asked Jacob, impatiently. “Murders aren’t exactly uncommon, especially here in Whitechapel. Why exactly do you think this one would be of interest to us?” 

“One of the officers discovered something disturbing. A letter that had been shoved down the back of the woman’s throat,” Frederick told them, his brows scrunched together. “It was stained up by saliva and blood, but there was a name in the letter. Crawford Starrick.” 

It was no secret that Crawford Starrick ruled London with an iron fist. He had a hand in everything. He traded favors and influence with the wealthy and nobles, whether that meant charming people or resorting to blackmail just depended on the situation. If he did not outright own a business, then he definitely had money invested. Any business or shop that stood against him soon found themselves out of business or worse. The streets of London, he kept underneath his thumb with the notorious gang called the Blighters. There hadn’t been a borough in the city that the Blighters didn’t have a foothold. 

The Frye Twins were doing everything to pry the Templars grasp from London, but they had ruled here for here unchallenged for a hundred years. They had setup a network of contacts and allies, that helped point them to the cogs that helped run the machine. Jacob had created the Rooks, a gang that was dangerous enough to rival the Blighters. But wars were not won in day, so they continued the fight ever forward. 

“Where is the letter now?” Evie asked. 

Frederick picked up a soiled rag and beneath it was the letter. 

Evie looked at Abberline for permission. “May I?” 

“Have at it. I’ve squinted at the bloody thing for several minutes before I went to inspect the body,” Frederick replied. “I left it here to dry, and—well, hopefully you have better luck than I.” 

Evie scanned the letter meticulously. The parchment was torn and stained. The ink warped and the words blotchy. “‘Dear Miss Whitworth, it has…come to my attention’…something about employment and then there is Starrick’s name. There appears to be a date mentioned, but only the year is decipherable. It says 1844. If the significance of the date is explained, it lost in the blood stain.” 

“Is that all?” asked Jacob, disgruntled. 

“If you would let me finished.” Evie spared him a quick and sharp glower, before she returned her gaze to the document. “‘Any information you could provide…Sincerely, Mr. S. Black.’ Who is Mr. Black?” 

“I suppose that is our job to find out. See you around, Freddie.” Jacob flicked the tip of his hat and rose swiftly out of the chair that the legs scraped harshly against the floor. He sent the Sergeant with a wink and then turned on heel so sharply, his coat fluttered wildly behind him. He walked out of the door with a jaunty wave of his shoulder. 

Evelyn hung her head and shook her head at his antics. It took a moment to gather up her patience, and she clasped the Sergeant by the shoulder. “Have no fear, Sergeant Abberline. We will find out who is responsible for this and they won’t get away with this,” she promised, her tone earnest. 

“I know that I can count on you both to get results. Just make sure to bring him in alive unlike the last one your brother caught. I would like criminals to face justice in a court of law, not at the end of your blade,” he said, in a severe tone of voice. His arms were folded across his chest and a deep frown settled on his brow. “I just hope that you catch this killer before he or she strikes again.” 

“I shall do my best,” she replied, with a strained smile. “On both counts.” 

Evelyn chased after her brother with lengthy and quick strides. 

Frederick watched up until both twins were out of sights. He took off hat off his head and swiped his palm down across his face. “It is a good thing those two are worth the headaches,” he groused, and then got back to his job. 

* * *

_London, England_

_Westminister_

There were specs of dust that floated in midair, glinting in the sunlight that poured in from gaping hole in the rooftop. Spiders and webs gathered in corners and cracks, and a single step forward would create a cloud of dust that would put a sandstorm to shame. Shard of glass and torn paper were strewn across the warped floor. A chandelier had crashed into the floor, splintering the hardwood and the rust chained it had been attached to swung aimlessly from the cracked ceiling. Threads of ivy had climbed up the walls, becoming a home to birds and insects. The house was a dismal sight, but underneath the decaying veneer, there was a wealth of potential. 

Strong and proud, the bones had weathered the test of time. Aster Potter walked around the room at a sedated pace, absorbing every little detail with her emerald eyes. She had come far from the knobby kneed, scrawny girl with big green eyes and hidden beneath a mess of black waves. The floorboard creaked beneath the weight of her witch’s boot, causing the middle-aged bespectacled man that loitered in the entrance to let out a nervous chitter. 

Aster turned towards Jasper McMahon, the solicitor that she had hired on several occasion. He was reliable, honest and most importantly knew when to be discreet. Her endeavors as a businesswoman did her no favors in Victorian London, treated much like a side show curiosity. If it weren’t for her wealth, she was certain that it would be more like a pariah. 

The arbitrary rules of high society frustrated Aster Potter to no end. It was like tiptoeing around an endless maze of regulations and propriety, hoping to not fall out of line; it would be almost hilarious, if it weren’t so sad and frustrating. It was not so different than many of the outdated traditions that she became familiar with when growing up in the Wizarding World, though she had never really taken part in those traditions in any real capacity. The Yule Ball and the Triwizard Competition in her fourth year was the only time she had to make use of it. Her actions were always under a microscope by her peers, but that year, she had more than just her classmates to worry, especially with Rita Skeeter. 

That being said, Aster had never really had to learn what it took to be a lady until after the Second War, and even that had not been for long. The Sickness and everything else that reared its ugly head, seizing the future from her hands and now she was here in Victorian London, in a world familiar yet stranger than she could ever imagined. People always speculated on time travel, or dimension travelling, but she knew that few beings ever accomplished it. 

Even fewer survived the transition intact. 

And she couldn’t share an ounce of that joy or wonder. There were parts of her life that were keep in the shadows, in the dark that she would never be able to openly give, save to those that had come with her on this journey and that she called family. 

That was why this purchase was so important to her. While she navigated the bloody political waters, she wanted to settle down to build the home of her dreams. The house was in a state of disrepair, but the plot of land that it sat upon was ideal. There was just enough grassland surrounding the estate to give a veil of privacy in the city, and there was an energy about this place that just called to her. 

This is where she would build, towering walls up high and create a sanctuary that no one could steal from her. 

“It is a diamond in the rough, Jasper,” she said, enthused. 

“Well, you said you wanted a project,” Mr. McMahon stated, rolling his bowler hat between his palms. 

“Yes, and you’ve outdone yourself!” 

He didn’t look a bit convinced. “If you say so, Lady Potter,” he replied. “I don’t see what you would want with this rundown muck.” 

“Oh, it has potential.” She took a couple of steps towards the center of the room, a vision of what the home could be unfolding in her mind’s eye. “The wooden floors will be stained a deep red—a cherry red, and the Axminister style carpets. The walls will be a soft neutral color, nothing too bold and stifle the flow of the entrance. The parlor will have a stone fireplace, and—I am rambling, aren’t I?” she cut off, her cheeks colored with embarrassment. 

“A bit, Lady Potter.” Jasper placed his hat on his head and had a kind smile on his face. “But it is good that you have a vision for this place. It is a shame that such a beautiful home had fallen into such despair.” 

“It will be a home again with a little love. Well…perhaps, a _lot_ of love,” she amended, casting the room one last glance. 

Her magic would come in handy in the repairs, though it was not as simple as waving her hand. Something cannot come from nothing; there was a need to fresh materials to make sure the structure was sound and steady. She did toy with the idea of expanding a room to make it bigger than the existing space. It was a delicate task, because it would be easy to pull the molecules that made up the room too thin and risk the stability of the structure. In order to achieve balance, she would need more construction supplies and on top of specialized runes to fold back reality. The runes carved into the support beams, studs and more would allow the magic to flow through the house like lifeblood and help compress the larger space into a deceptively small casing. One mistake could cause it to backfire in very dangerous and deadly ways. 

_Let’s shelve that for until the house is done,_ she thought, gnawing on her lower lip. _No point in counting chickens before they hatch._

“If you are set upon the purchase, I shall gather up all the paperwork and get ready for you to sign down at the bank, at your earliest convenience,” said Mr. McMahon. 

“That sounds wonderful, Jasper,” Aster replied, with a nod. 

Mr. McMahon turned to make his way out the door, when he faltered in step and visibly hesitated. A struggled played out across his face, and he turned in a circle, walking back towards her. “I didn’t want to say anything and worry you, but…” 

Aster peered at him, and her brows furrowed into a frown. “What is the matter, Jasper?” 

“There has been something I’ve been telling you, Lady Potter,” Mr. McMahon said, as if he was releasing a great weight off his chest. “I have a few people who have…expressed interest in your affairs. I’ve kept quiet, but I fear my silence on the matter will not deter them. I suspect these people are being paid under the desk by Crawford Starrick or Lucy Thorne to make inquiries about you.” 

His voice was hushed and quiet, as if he feared to speak too loudly and summon them from thin air. Crawford Starrick was the boogeymen of London and had given people much reason to fear. There were few that opposed him, and that did not suffer for their impudence. Lucy Thorne acted on his behalf; her intelligence only outweighed by her sadistic nature. 

When Aster started to venture into politics and business, she soon found herself under Starrick’s scrutiny. He had, at first, mistaken her for a simpleton with more money than sense; a bleeding heart trying to save the world that he could manipulate and take advantage of her purse strings. He was quickly set straight, but that only made him change his strategy. It made her heart sink when she first met him because…well, that didn’t matter, now did it? 

“No, it’s not Starrick. He believes that he can still sway to his vision for London and wouldn’t employ such means so soon. Honey attracts more flies than vinegar, after all,” Aster responded, after a thoughtful silence. She retrieved her leather gloves from her coat pocket and slipped them one before they stepped out of the house. “I would say this is the work of Thorne. She has seen me solely as a threat from day one, and very antagonistic in our brief encounters.” 

It would be easier to live a life, with all the comforts that she could afford and keep all those that she loved, close and safe. No one could say that it wasn’t deserved, after everything she had been through. But then, sitting still was never her thing. 

It had broken a piece of her soul to leave the Wizarding World. Not only because all the people she had left behind, regardless of how bad or good those relationships were, but because she knew that the Third Wizarding War was not over. She had helped the Resistance, had snuck people to freedom and safety, but a part of would always hate herself for not seeing it through to the end. 

And now this London, churning forward in the heart of the Industrial Revolution, where oppression was veiled as capitalism just made all those emotions resurface. From dawn to dusk, the lower class was forced to work themselves to the bone for pay that would barely keep food in their families’ mouths, or roofs over their heads. The conditions of living for the poor were abysmal, so dreadful in fact that it made her cupboard underneath the stairs seem cozy. And the children! Children forced to work alongside of their parents in hazardous conditions in factories, because society prevented them any better opportunities! 

She had learned this history, the words written all nice and neat in a book. It was a whole different thing to be confronted with the reality of it, and she had already turned away from injustice once to preserve the safety of those she held dear. She could not do it twice. 

And if that meant going toe to toe with people like Starrick and Thorne, then so bet it. She had more aces up her sleeve than they could possibly imagine. 

Aster followed the solicitor towards the carriage that waited on the dirt road, when she spotted a tiny figure dart into the tree line and brush. She paused for the faintest of heartbeats, before she cleared her throat and looked at the solicitor. “Jasper, you take the carriage back into town,” she commented, in a slow tone. “I feel the need to take a stroll and get a bit of fresh air.” 

Jasper’s forehead creased with worry. “I don’t not wish to impose my opinion where it isn’t wanted, Lady Potter,” he said. “But the streets are hardly safe, especially for a young woman without an escort.” 

“I appreciate your concern, Jasper,” Aster told him, with a half-smile, “but I can handle myself. Now, please, do not allow me to delay you from further business.” 

Mr. McMahon seemed to want to say more on the matter but recognized no amount of warnings would sway such stubbornness. He got into the carriage and told the driver where to take him. Aster watched the carriage jostled about, rolling down the long dirt road until it reached the rusty, iron wrought gates and then turned out of sight. She stood there patiently, with her hands clasped behind her back and her head tilted to the side. 

“You can come out of hiding now,” Aster spoke up, turning on a circle. “There is no need to be my little shadow.” 

A rustle of movement came from the leaves and branches, and from the thicket, Clara O’Dea stepped out. The street urchin wore a dress that was old, tattered and she had nearly outgrown. Her shoes scuffed and falling apart, and her skin sallow. Despite all of that, those brown eyes were fierce for a child of nearly eleven; sharp and evaluating the world, which made her an ideal contact to have in the city. 

It had not been an intentional meeting, by far. One that happened quite by accident thanks for Teddy’s gift for mischief and her son had been lovestruck by the sharp-witted girl ever since. Aster had learned of the network of orphans and poor children that Clara had created over the years, that passed along information and supplies to those who needed it. She had wanted to help, offering the children a home to stay off the streets. 

Donald and Wanda, though they would forever be Dobby and Winky to her, were too old to have children of their own and saw fostering the kids as way to experience that joy. There were nearly eight children that lived with them now, that were getting the education, food and most importantly emotional support that they needed now. A handful of families had joined Donald and Wanda in their efforts, creating a tight knit community to help keep the young ones safe since they were that suffered the most in these times. 

Clara refused to take shelter amongst the sanctuary houses, choosing to stick to her way of life. _“There are many children that live on the streets. People don’t like to look at us, turning a blind eye and we go unnoticed. That helps in my line of work,”_ the girl explained. She was not ungrateful for what had been done for the others, but she was not content to be when she had seen too much. 

Aster saw a lot of herself in Clara. Once her mind was set, it was not so easily swayed. So, the witch had settled for funneling the Homeless Network supplies and any tidbits that she thought would prove useful. She occasionally popped in, checking and making sure that no one gave them trouble. Clara always claimed it was unnecessary, and that her network already had protectors. 

“You are hurt,” Aster said, a trickle of alarm sliced through her. Her eyes on the bruise on Clara’s cheek, and she stepped forward guided on her motherly instinct to help only to stop short when Clara shook her head sharply. Her teeth sank into her lower lip, and her gut churned unpleasantly. Her hands dropped to her sides, and her fingers twitched restlessly. “What happened, Clara?” 

Clara sighed. “Blighters. The wankers were looking for kids to work at the factories. They weren’t taking no for an answer, and I got a bit into the scrap when they tried to haul me off. But that’s not why I am here,” she replied, with a shake of her head. “I ran into Teddy on my way to Mr. Green’s shop. He saw the bruises and—” 

“Shit,” Aster cursed. 

Her fingers slid to the bangle on her first, encrusted with a yellow tanzanite. The tanzanite was a jewel was a good conductor of magic, and with the runes engraved upon the silver, it worked similar the Weasleys family clock did. Only instead of snippets of where her son was, it would grow hot and glow if he was in danger and could help her locate him. A shard of relief passed through her head when the stone was cold and did not hold an unearthly glow. 

Whatever her son was doing, he wasn’t in danger just yet, so she had a bit of time to find him before he did something unbelievably stupid. _He really is my child,_ she thought, mournfully. 

“I am sorry. I did try to stop him,” Clara insisted, in earnest. 

“You don’t know have to apologize, Clara. You have done nothing wrong. My son on the other hand is going to regret the day he was born when I get ahold of him,” Aster vowed, with all the disapproval that a mother could muster. She turned towards the girl, laying a hand on her shoulder and weaved a silent protection spell around the child. “Do me a single favor, please? Go to Donald and Wanda. You don’t have to stay, but Wanda knows medicine. Let her check you over and give you a clean bill of health. If not for my peace of mind, then for Teddy’s.” 

Clara twisted one of her braids anxiously between her hands. “Alright. I will.” 

“Thank you,” Aster said, with no small amount of relief. “Stick to the main stretch of roads. There are more police officers there, and while some of them might be bought out by the Blighters, even they cannot turn away when crimes are done out in the open. It would risk the public outrage.” 

“And Starrick cannot have that,” Clara spat, with angry tears gathering in her eyes. 

Aster looked away, a pensive frown on her face. “No, he cannot.” 

The young girl wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “Make sure you tell Teddy that he is an idiot, for good measure when you find him,” Clara said, with a mild sniffle. The orphan turned on heel and then sprinted away, leaving Aster there with a knot in her throat. 

Her hand balled up into fists, she released a shaky breath before she poured magic into her bracelet. The tanzanite lit up, ever so lightly. “Locate my son,” she demanded, in a hard whisper. The magic reverberated, then cast outward like fishing line—but longer and wider, up and out into the city until it pulled taut, feeling a tug in her chest. She grasped onto the sensation and started to walk forward, her gait brisk and angry. “Theodore Remus Potter, you are in so much trouble.” 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:  
> 1.) It took Evie and Jacob a year to liberate London in canon. Like it took Kassandra a year to leave the island and find her family, and all that jazz. I feel that these events would have taken years as opposed to a single year. So this is why I have edited the timeline to fit my narrative. So while Evie and Jacob have arrived in London in the year 1868, and have done a world of good, they still haven’t beat Crawford Starrick. The Templars ruled over London for a hundred years, and while it is poetic that the Assassins undid that in a year, it just doesn’t feel feasible or realistic. I may be nitpicking, but don’t hold the game canon timeline in high regard when reading this story, okay? (I also have a hectic schedule and many stories, so I just update when I can, but I rarely if ever abandoned a story. I think two stories out of the forty I have written, I ever truly given up on. I’ve returned to stories after a few months or a year, but I haven’t given up on story. I just have a lot going on in real life, so I can’t freely type like I used to. Aw, what I wouldn’t give for that freedom again. Just please be patient is all I ask.)  
> 2.) Theodore's Name: I know in canon that it Edward Remus Lupin, and Teddy is his nickname. I've always preferred the name Theodore to Edward, so I have actively changed that in this story. As for Teddy having the last name to Potter, I just feel that is a natural progression of Aster being his mom for so long and him wanting to have her last name, too. That doesn't mean he doesn't have Lupin in his last name, but hyphenated named are a mouthful to spit out when angry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Tabbymelons95, delphinepryde84, artimusdin, Wolfwill, Tsukiyoukai, Scarlettravencrove, Ryn_Tak, Lykae_Sky, EmileStorms, Jasminiasa14, StoryHabit, Ellerahs, jonesnatasha30, slytherinbitch, Jane0Doe, ellagenetics, morkdallah, Boomer1125, Namikazenatsumi, Blood_Rose21, AnimeGamerGirl23 and the five guests who left kudos.
> 
> I also want to thank those who bookmarked the story. Thank you so much.

A Fragile Anarchy 

By ThroughtheMirrorDarkly

* * *

Chapter Two

_April 19th, 1871_

_London, England_

_Whitechapel_

Jacob Frye felt her temper white-hot strike at his temples, a mad and insistent hammer, feeling the need for a stiff drink and it hadn’t already hit noon. For the last half an hour, he had been working tooth and nail to get answers of the locals about what occurred last night. The people were tight-lipped and unwelcoming, too wary of outsiders as it usually meant trouble. He was trying to work answers out of the man in front of him, when he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. His teeth were set on edge, he paused the conversation and turned to look at his sister with a brow arched. 

“What?” he asked, tone sharp. 

“Where were you?” whispered Evie in a livid tone. 

“Give me a little credit, dear sister. I haven’t been just dawdling about.” Jacob masked his irritation with a taunting smirk over his shoulder at his sister, before he gestured to the nervous looking man standing before him. “This man is the neighbor who alerted to the police to Miss Whitworth’s unfortunate demise. He calls himself Nichols.” 

Jacob could feel her burning daggers into the back of his skull, until she brushed past him to take charge of the situation. Her temper had flared up more recently, ever since her encounter with Miss Thorne and the loss of the necklace that was a key to uncovering a Piece of Eden. He had bit his tongue on several occasions, understanding her frustration to a point. Still, he was not a punching bag and wouldn’t hold back forever. 

“At least, you were doing something more productive than starting brawls in the streets,” she grumbled, underneath her breath. The annoyance on her face smoothed away into a mask of neutral politeness when she directed her stare at the man. “Nichols, was it?” 

“Uh, yes.” Nichols was a dark-skinned working-class man. His clothes worn and low quality and covered in coal dust. His wide eyes darted between Jacob and Evie, and fear crept into his expression while he wrung his hat between his hands. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. Men like me already have a hard time as it is, and I don’t want to—to be involved in something that could cost me my job. I have a family to provide for.” 

“We don’t want to cause any trouble,” Evelyn replied, matter-of-factly. “We just want to ask a few questions and then we will be out of your hair. Was there anything that you can recall about when you found Miss Whitworth this morning? Anything that stuck you as odd or seemed out of place?” 

Nichols’ entire body shuddered with a great breath and then he crossed himself with eyes clenched shut. “It was just so awful. She was such a kind lady. She would watch my kids, teach them their letters, while my wife and I worked at the mill. She is the reason we got the jobs in the first place. It didn’t matter what you looked like, or where you come from, Miss Whitworth was always there to lend a helping hand,” he responded, his voice trembled. “To see her like that…” 

“Did you see anyone else around her apartment?” asked Jacob. 

“No. No one. But that’s not surprising,” he said. “The factory works me to the break of dawn. Not a lot of people that are out and about at that time. None of the ones that I want to be associating with at any rate.” 

“Do you know anyone who would have done such a thing?” Evie inquired. 

“No. No.” Nichols blew his nose into his hat and then dabbed at his wet eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “She was a friendly woman. She could strike up a conversation with anyone!” he wept nosily. “A regular church bell that one.” 

The conversation proved fruitless. Nichols didn’t know anything that could give them a new lead or point them in the direction of a suspect. It was made all that more uncomfortable since the man was inconsolable through half of it. Jacob walked down the street, as the city woke up and filled with life all around them. A dog chased a cat across the street causing a horse to startle and the coachman narrowly avoided disaster, nearly running over a family of four. Several passersby shouted at the coachman and he shouted back. 

“Don’t you just find Whitechapel just so peaceful?” asked Jacob, sarcastically. 

His sister just sent him a flat look, and then shook her head. “We should go see Mr. Greene.” 

“Oh? Go see him without any flowers?” Jacob mocked, gleeful at the way her face turned red as a tomato. “He might think that you have gotten fickle with your affect—” 

“Mr. Black is our only lead,” Evie stated, talking over him loudly. Her eyes promised death if he said another word and her hands were clenched into fists at her side. “Mr. Greene has contacts that we can put to good use in this endeavor.” 

“Mr. Black, Mr. Greene, what is next? A Miss Scarlet?” Jacob asked, sarcastically. 

The jaunt to the curio shop was relatively uneventful, surprising for a day that started with murder. The _Curiosity Shop_ carried an eclectic mix of antiques and modern goods, and despite that it was tucked out of the way of the main strip, Mr. Greene’s business thrived. The Rooks guarded the area well, as many attempts had been made on Greenie’s life. Jacob perused through the selection of weapons that hung on the wall, while the twins waited for Mr. Greene to come out from the backroom. They could hear him muttering in his native tongue, and rummaging about, until he appeared with a stack of books in his arms. 

Henry Greene was a good-natured fellow, with a pleasant and warm disposition, but assassins didn’t survive by being pleasant. He was fierce fighter, all the lethality of panther went provoked, and yet despite so many times being backed into a corner, his heart was that of an optimist. He was a steadfast ally and a good friend, who put up with more than was deserved. His ebony hair was swept out of his face, had eyes so black that they looked obsidian unless bright light revealed russet colored depths, and his dark skin glistened with a sheen of sweat. 

Despite the moniker of Henry Greene, he had been born Jayadeep Mir within the borders of the Sikh Empire nearly thirty years ago. He had chosen to change his name in a way to conform to society standards, as a great number of immigrants were prone to do by will or force when coming to England or America. Greenie had been the sole assassin, working in London to find weakness in the Templar Stronghold, but the Brotherhood did not have high hopes since it had been in Templar hands for over a century. Still, Greenie stood vigilant and watchful, even in the most trying of times. 

Lips quirked into a blithely grin, Henry set the books on the counter and greeted them. “Ah, Jacob, Evie,” his tone softened and warmed with fondness that went deeper than friends, eyes lingered on Evelyn for a moment longer than was proper, “what can I do for you today?” 

Jacob smirked, at his sister who was beet red. “There’s been a murder, Greenie. Down in White Chapel. There is a letter that indicates that Starrick might have a hand in it. Have you heard of any rumors on the street about a Mr. Black?” 

Henry frowned, deeply. “Black is a fairly common surname, unfortunately, but…wait! There was a mention I believe in Robert Topping’s last letter…” Greene went back to his office, the sound of drawers and papers being shuffled about hastily, before he returned with a letter in hand. He set the letter down on the counter, tracing each line with is finger until he found what he was looking for. “Yes, here it is. Topping mentioned that there was a newcomer, working through the underbelly of the city for information. It only caught his attention because he was unsettled how this person was virtually a ghost, leaving little to no trace behind.” 

“Quite a feat for someone new to the black market. Outsiders are treated with heavy scrutiny, even those with a good amount of coin,” Jacob commented, with a tilt of his head. “Does Topping mention a name?” 

“A ‘Mr. Grey, or a Mr. Black,’” Greene tapped and pointed out the specific phrase in the letter. “Topping has never been good with names, but his mind is a steel trap when it comes to remembering faces. You might want to speak to him, but you’ll need to be careful. There have been many of the races and tournaments organized by Topping that have been ransacked by the police or have been taken completely over by Blighters. Topping is doing his best, but Starrick has a foothold in the black market. Any hint that you two are searching for something will put you in grave danger,” he warned, lightly. 

Jacob smirked. “When has danger ever stop us?” 

“Fair point!” Henry said, with a chuckle. The flash of humor vanished, in the blink of an eye, and he ran his palm down the length of his jaw. “Topping isn’t the only person I know with connections to the underworld. Allow me a bit of time to get in touch with an old friend. If luck is kind enough and, on our side, then you might get the answers you seek.” 

“Thank you, Henry.” His sister gifted Henry, a beatific and grateful smile. She dithered for a moment, fingers tapping nervously against the counter before she cleared her throat. “There is…something else that I would like your opinion on, if it is not an imposition.” 

“Never,” Henry reassured her, with a lopsided smile. “What is that you need?” 

Jacob watched them, with a hint of disgust. All the lovesick glances and dopey smile were so sweet that he could feel the cavities form in his teeth. He was half tempted to just lock the pair in a room to move things along because at the rate they were going, both would be geriatric before their first kiss. 

“I am conducting an experiment that will hopeful give me a better insight to Miss Whitworth’s wounds,” Evie responded, her tone polite and clinical. She was doing her best to be composed, but Jacob knew his sister well enough to catch the glimmer of nerves in her gaze. “I was hoping that you would accompany me.” 

Henry seemed surprised by the invitation, but then inclined his head. “As you wish.” 

Her smile blossomed, and then she caught Jacob looking at her smugly, and she reined it in sharply. The Frye Twins bid Henry a good day, and left the shop, the chime of the bell following them. Jacob let out a hearty chuckle, only to find Evie’s elbow buried swiftly in his ribs. “Ow! What was that for?” he demanded, through laughter. 

Evelyn looked at him, scathingly. “You know exactly what it is for. I am heading for the train station,” she told him, smartly. “I want to do more research into the Pieces of Eden. We have to get ahead of Lucy Thorne if we are to keep the pieces out of the Templars hands.” 

“I think that you put too much stock in old gods and fairytales,” Jacob said, with a slow shake of his head. He never liked how the Brotherhood, or the Templars for that matter, chased after the precursor objects and legends of Those Who Came Before. “Those blighted pieces and temples are best left alone. A whole world of mess and trouble is all it will bring.” 

Evelyn released a deep sigh, and the tight line of her shoulders eased a fraction. “Maybe you are right. Maybe it is better left alone. Unfortunately, we do not have the luxury of doing that since the Templars are so keen on finding them,” she stated, matter-of-factly. “The only thing we can do is try to find the Pieces of Eden and precursor sights and keep them safe from those who would use them to do ill.” 

Jacob conceded the argument, before it turned circular. His sister did have a point, after all. The Templars wouldn’t leave well enough alone, spurred on by the thought of absolute control and power over the fate of the world for a sundry of reasons. He just recalled the first time he had been around a Piece of Eden when he was a child. It was a broken hammer wielded by a would-be god, called Mjolnir. It made his skin prickle with unease, and there was this itch in the back of his mind. Not a good feeling, not one bit. 

The precursor items and those who made them was a can of worms that was best left closed. 

He meandered down the streets, towards the train station by his sister’s side when a red-faced, out of breath Rook came running up to them. “Mr. Frye!” she hollered, at the top of her lungs. “Mr. Frye!” 

“Calm down, woman!” Jacob hissed, after casting a wary glance on the street. “What are you shrieking mad about? What is going on?” 

“Blighters! Rounding up kids off the street, they were! Luring ‘em with promises of food ‘nd shelter. Some were a bit smarter than to fall for that ol’ trick, so they started using force,” the Rook explained, her words barely fathomable in her haste. “We managed to get a few of ‘em free, but Blighters picked off a few of the Rooks! They even got ol’ Jimmy, ‘nd he was the quickest bastard with a gun I ever seen.” 

“Where are they now?” Evie asked, tone brisk and sharp. 

“Spotted ‘em heading west to the abandoned warehouse district, Miss Evie.” 

Jacob felt a rage boiled and roll in his gut. “I want two Rook stationed to help the rest of the children escape on my order,” he ordered, his mouth an angry slash. “You and the rest of the gang will fall back with the kids you have already saved and go to the nearest stronghold. We will proceed from there when I arrive.” 

The Rook bolted, as if struck by lightning. “Yessir!” 

Urgency singing hot in his blood, Jacob scaled the nearby building with nimble fingers and quick feet. He hoisted himself up onto the rooftop and set off across the gable with Evelyn not far behind. His boots clacked on the shingles, and his pulse pounding in his throat. His eyes scanned the area below, the mutation of his eyes sent a stabbing back to the back of his eyeballs until the world was cast in a silvery silhouette. The explanation for this strange manifestation in the Assassin bloodlines was very vague and thin at best, his hat was tossed away, and his hood pulled up to hide his face. 

It was not long until the bird eye view caught sight of blotches of red, cutting through the hazy, greyish gloom. He blinked, pinching the bridge of his nose and shook his head roughly. When he reopened his eyes, the world was back to normal though no less dull and lifeless as the White Chapel district resembled an empty husk filled with hollowed and worn-down people. 

In the alleyway below, the stench of mildew and blood filled the air. There were four Rooks with green, bloodstained jackets that were scattered across the ground. Not a single movement, not a single stirring of breath. All were dead. Jacob felt it stab him white hot in the gut, and the muscle in his jaw ticked. His dark eyes flickered to the group of kids, huddled in the back of a cart. The patchwork clothing was of poor quality, dirty and torn. Children of the poor and disenfranchised, easy to steal away in the night and few would put the effort in trying to find them. All teary eyed and paled with shock, the gaggle of children stared fearful at the barrel of the gun that the sole Blighter held upon them. 

The Blighter shifted on the balls of his feel nervously. His face was ashen and grey, eyes blown wide and sweat stains drenched his jacket around the neck and armpits. The finger coiled around the trigger quaked while the apple of his throat bobbed sharply. 

Jacob grimaced, crouched behind a chimney. “It will have to be deadly and swift. This one’s _twitchy_.” 

“I can do it,” Evelyn affirmed. 

“Then after you, dear sister.” 

Evelyn was terrifying, if Jacob was honest. She disciplined and precise, even in the art of killing. She slipped down off the rooftop, silent and like a shadow. Her feet hit the ground with a soft thud, but she ducked behind cargo boxes when the Blighter’s head snapped in that direction. 

Jacob watched with his pistol drawn, just in case. He saw a glint of a throwing knife in Evie’s hand, a split second before she threw it with an accuracy unmatched. A glint of silver sliced through the air and the knife buried into the base of the man’s skull. The Blighter dropped like a sack of bricks, and the children all let out terrified screams. Evelyn hurried out of her hiding spot, while Jacob scaled down the side of the building. He gestured with his hand to the two Rooks that loitered in the alleyway, just out of sight to come forth and then strode over to his sister. 

“It is alright now. You are safe,” Evelyn promised. 

“But Teddy isn’t!” one girl insisted, with a loud hiccup. 

Jacob arched a brow slowly. “My Rooks—the men and women in the green jackets? They got a few kids off to safety before…” he trailed off, glancing back at the dead bodies with a deep frown etched into his brow. “Perhaps Teddy is one of the ones already seen to safety.” 

“T-Teddy was here af—after the green jackets!” a little boy interjected, with a stutter. 

“Teddy got them chasing him, he did! He ran off into the warehouse, but I haven’t seen him since!” a redheaded girl wailed, eyes seeped with tears. “I—I want to go home. Can we go home now?” 

Jacob stood there, his jaw agape and awkward, staring at the bawling child. As soon as one erupted like a fountain, the others soon followed with hiccups and sobs. His eyes darted desperately to his sister, practically begging her to do something. 

Evelyn let out a mute sigh. “Hush now. The Rooks,” she gestured to the two gang members in green that were in the midst of cleaning up the mess, “are going to take you somewhere safe. There you can tell them your names, and where your parents live, so we can see you safely returned.” 

Her calm soothing tone seemed do trick, quieting the children, though there was the occasion sniffle or whimper. “It is all going to be alright, but you have to follow our friends,” she told them, gently. “Have you ever played a game? Like hide and seek?” 

A few scattered nods came from the seven kids. 

“Think of it like a game of hide and seek, but you are all a group hiding from a…” Evie faltered for a split second. 

“A big dragon!” interjected Jacob. 

“Yes, a big and angry dragon. The Rooks are you guards, they will tell where to hide and when to move, alright? Do you all understand?” asked Evelyn. When the kids murmured affirmatives and bobbed their heads agreement, the female assassin let out a slow breath. “Good. Be safe and stay together. Follow the Rooks and watch out for the dragon.” 

The children all clambered out of the back of the cart, one by one, while Jacob impressed the severity of the situation onto the Rooks. He made it clear that if anything were the happen to those children, then every Rook responsible for their safety would be belting seven bells by the time he was through with them. The assassins stood in stony silence, watching the caravan down the road and then around the corner out of sight. 

“Selling children into slavery? That is a new low even for Starrick,” Jacob groused, darkly. 

“He has whole heartedly endorsed child labor as a way to help save the city,” Evie muttered, disgusted etched in her features. “It is not so much a stretch that the templars would see the poor as cattle to be bought and sold at auction.” 

“We’ll need to find who is behind this operation, but first we need to get to that warehouse. That boy might have tricked the Blighters into abandoning their other targets, but I don’t think a child will be able to outrun those bastards forever.” Jacob knelt of his haunches, inspected a bit of blood spilt across the dirt and eyed the trail that led away from the epicenter of disaster. “We need to follow this trail of blood.” 

Evelyn nodded. “Agreed.” 

His stomach churned. The haste to follow the trail, to stop the blade tragedy before it could strike deep, and he could barely breathe around the knot in his throat. He abhorred children getting in the crossfire in this bloody war. Children were the most vulnerable in such volatile times, and often the victim of the apathy and cruel hands of the world. 

The trail of blood led to a decrepit old warehouse. The doors were open, open, like a wide, gaping maw and it sent a shudder down his spine. Jacob recalled a time that his father dumped in the dead of night, to work at a factory to teach him some ‘responsibility’ and ‘manners’. He recalled the dull, grey walls in the night where the shadows grew long and out like monsters. The cold floor where he only had a tattered piece of cloth to wrap around him, his body ached from his daily beating. His teeth gnashed together, and the anger gnawed at his gut that he had allowed those memories to creep back in. He shook his head to clear his mind and marched through the threshold. 

His dark eyes flickered over all the machinery, cast in a patchy golden light from the foggy, broken windows. There were shouts, that reverberated off the metal, that Jacob chased through the compound with Evie following swiftly behind him. The Blighters, three in total, stood at the base of cargo boxes stacked up irresponsibly high. Perched up at the tippy top of the stacked boxes and out of reach of the gang members, was a young boy with a mischievous smile on his face. 

“Just say ‘what’,” the boy chirped. 

“I’ll clock your sauce-box, you little shit!” 

The boy paused, and then shrugged. “That’ll do.” 

The kid then proceeded to throw a baseball into the air. It soared across the loading bay until it smacked into a lever, causing it to snap forward. A sharp pocketknife had been tied to the top of the lever, and the blade—as the lever thrusted forward—had sliced into the ropes that bound up a bundled of barrels. The torn cord wasn’t completely severed, and for a fleeting moment, the boy looked panicked. And then, the rope groaned underneath the pressure of the drums, now unsteady, and then snapped apart with a noise like a crack of a whip. 

The barrels rolled off the platform above and fell with a sound of thunder against the floor, with Blighters dodging left and right. The containers were dented and cracked, and soothing syrup spewed out of the holes in a rush. 

Jacob let out a whoop of laughter, watching the mess unfold with unholy glee. The thick syrupy mess had the idiots slipping left and right, shouting curses that would make even the coarsest of sailors blush. He even heard Evie let out a chuckle or two, but the laughter soon ended when one of the Blighters pulled out a gun. Moving as fast as lightning, Jacob rushed forward and used his cane to strike the Blighter’s palm. The man dropped the gun with a cry of shock and turned to face the assassin only to be smacked clean across the face. He dropped to the ground with a miserable whimper. 

Evelyn was vicious, taking the other to down with well placed strikes that cracked their heads against the stone floor. Not all that hard since the syrup helped them kiss the ground, and Evelyn stepped away from the mess, wiping off the bottom of her boot. 

“Shit!” The man at Jacob’s feet went pale as a sheet. “You are the Frye Twins!” 

Jacob pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the last Blighter. “Hunting children? I thought that we made it clear that child labor and slavery would not be tolerated in London.” 

The Blighter’s jaw clicked with a shut. He was practically sweating bullets, and his pupils were the size of pinpricks. “Just kill me and be done with it,” the man muttered, his head bowed forward. 

Jacob frowned, deeply. His dark eyes flickered up to see a pair of eyes skittishly peek over the edge of the cargo box, and then darted out of sight just as fast. His face twisted into a grimace, and then whipped the pistol across the man’s face. He struck him three times, until the Blighter’s eyes rolled into the back of his skull and he slumped to the ground, out cold as the other two. _There had already been enough trauma given out to kids like sweets today,_ he thought to himself. _I do not need to add to it further._

A sigh rushed through Jacob. “Going to have to call in the Rooks in for a cleanup.” 

Evelyn nodded in agreement. “Yes, but first…it is alright now!” she called out, her blue eyes lifted to where the child crouched, hidden just out of their sight. “You can come down. No one is going to hurt you.” 

The boy peeked again, a skeptical look in his eyes and he dithered momentarily. The child let out a sigh that was too world weary for someone his age, and then proceeded to climb down with all the nimbleness of a cat. He dropped to his feet, brushing off imaginary dust from his slacks and then glanced from Jacob to Evie with a curious look. 

Children and street urchins were made good spies, often able to slip unnoticed where others could not. It wasn’t impossible for the Blighters to have been attempting to recruit the boy but given the finery of his clothes and well-spoken manners, Jacob suspected a kidnapping attempt. But what did the Blighters expect to gain by it? He wondered just who this boy was to warrant such trouble. 

“Expensive fabric, handmade suit, far too fine for a beggar or child worker. So, what is a young gentlemen such as yourself doing amongst the rabble of White Chapel?” Jacob Frye questioned, flickering the lapel of the young boy’s jacket while he circled him like a vulture. 

“Just, uh, passing through,” the boy tittered, nervously. He chewed on his lower lip and ducked his head. His eyes flickered to the end of the alleyway like he was debating on bolting at any given second. 

Evie rested her hand on his shoulder and knelt to be closer on eye level with the eight-year-old. “Are you Teddy?” Evie asked, her voice soft and gentle. "Your friend were quite worried about you." 

“Yeah, that's me,” he said, after a moment. His eyes darted to Evie’s face then away quickly, his throat bobbed fretfully. He was still on edge, with his hands clenched into bloodless fists at his sides. "I didn't mean to worry anyone." 

“Teddy,” Evie smiled, “do you know why the Blighters targeted you?” 

Teddy gave a shrug of his shoulder. “Just unlucky, I guess.” 

“Oh, come on now, don’t sell me a dog. That little trap that you set on the Blighters—that took a lot of planning a dedication,” Jacob commented, scoffing at the ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ expression the child wore. “You knew the Blighters would come after you specifically, so tell us, Teddy, just what makes you so interesting?” 

The guileless look was replaced by a dark scowl. “My mom told me not to speak to strangers,” Teddy replied, his nose wrinkled disdainfully. “I have to be getting home now.” 

Jacob folded his arms across his chest. “You can run along home just as soon as you answer our questions.” 

“Theodore Remus Lupin!” a voice filled to the brim with fury came from the entryway. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: 1.) “Beautiful Crime” by Tamer 2.)  
> Author’s Note: It took Evie and Jacob a year to liberate London in canon. Like it took Kassandra a year to leave the island and find her family, and all that jazz. I feel that these events would have taken years as opposed to a single year. So this is why I have edited the timeline to fit my narrative. So while Evie and Jacob have arrived in London in the year 1868, and have done a world of good, they still haven’t beat Crawford Starrick. The Templars ruled over London for a hundred years, and while it is poetic that the Assassins undid that in a year, it just doesn’t feel feasible or realistic. I may be nitpicking, but don’t hold the game canon timeline in high regard when reading this story, okay? (I also have a hectic schedule and many stories, so I just update when I can, but I rarely if ever abandoned a story. I think two stories out of the forty I have written, I ever truly given up on. I’ve returned to stories after a few months or a year, but I haven’t given up on story. I just have a lot going on in real life, so I can’t freely type like I used to. Aw, what I wouldn’t give for that freedom again. Just please be patient is all I ask.)  
> References:  
> 1.) Miss Scarlet—it is a Clue. Obviously, Clue wasn’t a thing back then. It just hit me while writing, and I put in as a funny Easter Egg. Nothing more and nothing less.  
> Victorian Slang:  
> 1.) Door-Knocker—a type of beard that was popular at the time.  
> 2.) Church bell—a talkative woman.  
> 3.) Sauce-Box—The mouth.  
> 4.) Don’t Sell Me a Dog—Popular until 1870, this phrase meant “Don’t lie to me!” It was coined because of scammers who attempted to pass off mutts as pure-bred dogs.


End file.
